


You Could Say That

by orphan_account



Series: Terrible and True [2]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:51:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2163051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baffled scientists, aliens, and Bat Boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Could Say That

Saturday, December 18, 1999 (cont.)

The remote for their motel room’s TV is missing. That’s fine for Numbers, who doesn’t mind the short walk across the carpet to channel surf, just like he used to as a kid. But to Wrench that means he’s even more cut off from the rest of the world: no remote, no way to set up closed captioning. And though he’s happy to stubbornly make due while watching an uncaptioned movie, Wrench has to admit that TV’s an entirely different beast.

Numbers had begrudgingly offered to translate for him, yet he had refused, waving the offer away like it was a foul odor he didn’t want to breathe in. _“You’re not my damn interpreter,”_ he said to him, clearly offended.

And then Numbers, not feeling daring enough to remind him that interpreting is absolutely part of his job nor sorry enough to apologize, had announced that he needed a shower.

So Wrench sits in the room’s sole armchair by the wobbly pine table, opting to amuse himself by alternating between idly picking at the frayed blue threads on the cushion and looking out the window towards the freeway, though cars only seldom pass by. The TV's still on, and a graying man rattles off the local nightly news report. Wrench pays the program no mind, thoroughly disinterested in the town’s goings-on as the show jumps from segment to segment.

An open file rests on the table, but Wrench doesn’t want to go over it again without Numbers. It’s a boring read, in all honesty, not unlike most of the other files he’s been given for assignments. He wishes he had remembered to bring a book or even had the awareness to buy a magazine from a convenience store. Were his old partner still kicking they would have snagged the latest issue of _Weekly World News_ and spent an hour or so chuckling over Bat Boy and government conspiracies before his associate would lock himself in the bathroom to privately imagine a night with the Page 5 Honey.

Wrench begins seriously considering a trip down to the gas station when the bathroom door bursts open and Numbers finally emerges, a thick billow of steam following him and dispersing its humid heaviness throughout the room. Carrying a small, rectangular black bag and wrapped in one of the motel’s complimentary thread-bare white towels from the waist down, Numbers’ bare, lean chest and arms are revealed to his partner. They’re practically covered in an assortment of scars and tattoos that, in Wrench’s opinion, greatly surpass the number of markings that one person should have. There are certainly far more than he ever would have thought Numbers possessed, based on the few that poked out above his collar or past his sleeves. If _WWN_ printed an article about him he supposes it might be about how scientists were baffled over the motivations or state of mind of someone with so many faded, blotchy etches permanently fixed to their skin, and how he was probably an alien in disguise.

Though there certainly are a plethora of questionable designs to look at, including what appears to be some sort of horrid butterfly monster that no sane person would ever get while sober, Wrench’s eyes are locked on something else. Peeking out from beneath his dark, damp curls of chest hair are two highly unusual scars, mirroring each other almost two inches beneath his nipples and stretching outward and towards his sides in faded straight lines. He watches Numbers place the bag on his bed, trying to surmise how the hell scars like _that_ could even happen to somebody.

He leans forward in his chair to put himself within Numbers’ line of sight. _"Assignment gone wrong?"_ he asks, gesturing to the old wounds while Numbers rifles through his suitcase, only glancing up just enough to catch the question.

After considering this, Numbers says, _"You could say that."_ He pulls on a plain gray t-shirt that doesn’t suit him the way his nicer, more expensive clothes do, chuckling to himself.

Wrench doesn’t get the joke if there was supposed to be one. _"What happened?"_

 _"Nothing."_ He shakes his head and shifts with some discomfort, his tolerance for these questions quickly dissipating. _"Nothing, don’t worry about it."_

Thanks to Numbers’ aversion his curiosity only grows, and a dauntless Wrench points to the small black bag Numbers had set down on the edge of the bed. _"What's that?"_

Numbers lets loose an exasperated hiss and is immediately thankful Wrench can't hear him. _"Shaving kit."_

Wrench quickly retorts, _"But you didn't shave."_

_"I trimmed my beard."_

Numbers looks exactly the same as he did before entering the bathroom, only less dry and more irritated. _"No, you didn't."_

Numbers clenches his fists, brings his hands to his face, breathes deeply, then runs them through his wet hair. As a guy who’s been punched in the face on a relatively regular basis for the majority of his life, he can say with absolute confidence that a broken nose or a black eye will never piss him off the way a stranger’s prying does, well-intentioned or otherwise. It takes him another moment to compose himself before he can respond with the first lie that pops into mind, though he cares very little how convincing it might be.

 _“It's my insulin. I'm diabetic! Now you know!”_ He lifts his arms above his head, waving his hands in mock applause. _“Happy?”_

Wrench definitely doesn’t look happy as he watches Numbers’ theatrics. He sweeps his bangs away from his face and shakes his head, still gripping a fist full of his own hair.

 _“Can I get dressed so we can go over the job again?”_ Numbers signs with one hand, grabbing pants and boxers with his other. _“We’ve gotta deal with L-O-V-E-R-A by Thursday."_

Wrench bobs his head at the reminder. It’s something that Numbers has been drilling into him all goddamn day, and he desperately wants to crack a joke, maybe comment that he could have sworn they only had until Tuesday, and is Numbers sure he heard correctly? but he instead focuses on logging away his partner’s almost frantic desire to remove himself from the situation. Before Numbers can close the door Wrench knocks on the table, which protests with a petite creak.

Numbers’ shoulders and neck slump forward. “God, what?” Turning, he braces himself for more intrusive questions, holding his clothing against his chest as if it could shield him from Wrench’s words. _"What?"_

 _"You shouldn't put so much maple syrup on your waffles if you're diabetic,"_ Wrench signs good-humoredly, alluding to the diner breakfast they had before hitting the road that morning where Numbers had attempted to drown his meal in sweet, syrupy sludge.

Numbers doesn’t appreciate whatever Wrench is doing, whether he’s testing the waters or showing genuine concern or out-and-out fucking with him. Not having the patience to say anything else, he merely flips his partner off for, if he was counting, the fifth time that day, and disappears back into the bathroom. Wrench can feel how hard Numbers slams the door behind him, the vibrations rippling across the floor to his feet. A satisfied, impish grin takes over his face.

While he waits for Numbers’ return, Wrench considers the little black bag still perched on the bed, his smile fading into a curious frown as the light from the television playfully bounces off the parcel’s leather exterior.


End file.
